Ricky: Rocky & The Maine Coon Connection

The first thing I’d like to talk about is our old Rockykins, AKA Mister Fluffy, and other assorted sobriques we gave him over the wonderful last three years of his life he spent with us – wonderful to us, and the very least, and perhaps the best three years of his troubled life before being adopted in 2011 from the animal shelter.

I often called Rocky silly things like Rockythulhu, or Fluffy-Man, and he was, during the awesome time we had him, the buddy and playmate of both myself and Mister Eccles, the infamous insane bionic ninja tuxedo cat we literally found on the street as a kitten barely two weeks old.

Rocky had a problem, one that kept him in a revolving door situation with the animal shelter prior to his last years with us. So it was a challenge to care for his needs, but a challenge along with others that we successfully met. Never again did he face going back to await adoption by strangers, and rejection, by yet another family.

We were his forever home, and we loved him dearly. He was affectionate, social with humans and other cats, and intelligent.

I remember sitting in bed with a book, or studying something at night, with old Rockykins snuggling up beside me as though reading and studying along with me.

He was always like that.

Then, one day in January of 2016, he died. And our world was never the same.

It was about noon, or so, and that morning, Rockythulhu had just eaten breakfast. We were about to go out when we saw him laying curled up on his favorite spot on the couch, apparently sleeping. It was when we tried to pet him we knew something was wrong. He didn’t respond. Motionless. Not breathing. No heartbeat, but still warm. He had died, only moments ago, in his sleep, the way I would like to if I died. No signs of pain.

Mom and I were heartbroken. For a few minutes, we tried to rouse him. No avail. He was gone.

We wrapped him, in his favorite lace knit, and took his motionless, cooling form to the vets to have him cremated.

His urn, an engraved wooden box, and a ceramic paw-print cast from him, now adorns a permanent spot on my workspace.

 

It was some time before we got another cat, and THAT would be a few months later, as Eccles needed a playmate.

It was some time before we had found Ricky, formerly listed in his papers as Villhelm (I kid you not. German class teachers of my high-school days would spin in their graves at the horrid misspelling, and if still alive today, would die of apoplexy on seeing it!). Needless to say, we changed his name.

An era had ended with the death of old Rockykins, but a new age began when we adopted Ricky, an age of fluffy and adorable Maine coon-ness, and hopefully, one that will continue for a long while.

Welcome home, Rickythulhu!

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